


Mayfly and the Endless Night

by dogtit



Category: Suicide Squad (2016)
Genre: F/F, Other, itll get there eventually., m for like violence atm, not adhering to movie OR comic canon, starts wild but the slice of life esque stuff will come., think venom/eddie but with lesbians and also feral witch ghosts.
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-28
Updated: 2019-08-31
Packaged: 2020-09-28 10:33:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,770
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20424512
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dogtit/pseuds/dogtit
Summary: How June learned to love herself, and also the six thousand year old demigod inhabiting her body, one bagel at a time. And maybe some (anti)hero stuff on the side, because the world won't save itself.





	1. in media res

**Author's Note:**

> this'll probably come and go, updating when i think of Funny Hijinks for them to come up with. i cant stress enough how the Dearth of my knowledge comes from a Single viewing of suicide squad 3 years ago and watching injustice 2 intro videos. so safe to say June and Enchantress are both Extremely Different from any canon material because im marie kondo'ing this motherfucker.
> 
> basically; Comic Writers Usually Dont Care About Canon, So Neither Will I

In medias res. 

in ˈmēdēəs ˈres,ˈmādēˌäs. Adverb. Meaning: into the middle of a narrative; without preamble.

The soles of her boots screech over rock and dirt and ancient flooring as she slides down a surprise slope. She barely keeps her balance as she throws her hands behind her, palms rubbed raw and leaving behind tiny little streaks of blood. Should have worn her gloves for it, but she’s not about to stop running for her life to pull them on now. June has much more important things to worry about. 

Like her coworkers trying to kill her. 

Her heels hit packed earth and June tumbles forward, rolling head over ass until the world stops spinning. The clattering of her backpack and equipment echo like wet, newborn sobs; the sound rips open the darkness and leaves her exposed. June pops herself to hands and knees as she hears scrambling feet, heavy male voices. 

“ _ Down there! _ ” Alexi shouts. “ _ She is down there! _ ” 

The half muttered  _ fuck _ that drips from June’s mouth is only half hysterical. She grabs three things from her pack; her gloves (she tucks these into her back pocket) a length of climbing rope and pegs (she slings this over her shoulder) and climbing axe. She clips the last to her belt and ignores how the red hunk of sharp metal bounces against her right thigh as she runs again.

The serpentine corridor of the temple comes to an angry, abrupt fork; June pants and stares at the walls covered ceiling to floor in unintelligible hieroglyphs, blinking sweat from her eyes. Give her six months and she could have this translated; give her a year and June could probably tell you how this temple was made from the (under)ground up. But June hardly has five minutes, and it’s left or right, live or die.

“ _ Fuck _ ,” she whimpers. 

It’s hard enough to see when her only light source is a flashlight literally strapped to her head via helmet, and its harder to breathe because the panic is growing like a festering handful of stinging nettles. Hysteria beckons, chills race down her spine and

_ june. _

She looks to the right. Her flashlight only projects light five feet in front of her, and that’s being generous; beyond that ring of pale yellow is nothing but void and the sickly sweet stench of old-temple-fungus, shit June learned to love when she was twenty, shit she craved at twenty three, and shit she’d rather not be smelling on her last day on Earth at twenty six. There’s a pull deep in her gut. 

_ run. _

Her palms sting. June takes a ragged breath in, and hurls her backpack down the left hallway to try and give the impression of running that way. The little voice in her head must be instinct, some kind of innate sense of direction that gifts her insight into a forgotten temple lost to time, to man, to history. Well, June thinks, it’s fine if the voice is like, literal, or whatever. If she lives June’s already planning to check herself into some serious therapy.

And if she dies, well. Duh.

When June nearly smashes her brains into the wall at the dead end of the corridor, she hopes to high heaven that her backpack trip bought her some time. That, or her coworkers won’t split into two groups to search for her. Let her live another day, and whatever. Things are getting a little too  _ Tomb Raider _ -esque for June’s liking. 

The wall’s mural is kind of horrifying, in a sort of  _ wow, we’re really fucked up as a species, huh? _ Way. It’s also very fascinating, in an academic sense. A depiction of ritual sacrifice; animal, human. Jungle cats and infants. A male and female figure. Gods? June isn’t familiar with the pantheons of the Amazon as much as she’d like to be, but maybe there’s some kind of sun/moon dichotomy going on here. 

The guy’s the sun, obviously. If there’s one constant humanity likes to ascribe to all things related to deities, it’s that the sun is a ripped dude. The female has a crescent shape affixed to the top of her head, so there’s the moon, obviously. 

It’s all carved and raised stone on stone on stone, drenched in mildew and aged with fine moss. June tries to take it in and touches her fingertips against the wall; finds the stones warm against her skin, slightly damp. Soupy humidity clings to every inch, curling up in June’s aching lungs like a stubborn cat. 

An impulse threads into her, irresistible and inhuman. June’s breath hitches. She raises a hand. Touches the time worn face of the female coded figure. Has to press the length of her body against it just to do it. Traces the crescent moon. And suddenly the wall is tipping backwards, like some kind of Scooby-Doo trap, flipping June into a hidden chamber. Her back hits wet, loamy earth; forgotten bones crunch under the weight of her body. 

She lays there for a while, eyes slammed shut and fists clenched. Waiting. Breathing. Her blood cools, sludging it up in her veins. 

_ june _ , something croons. Inhuman and delighted and whisper thin. June’s eyes snap open and she slowly peels herself from the mud. 

There’s not much that she can really see. More natural lighting thanks to an open hole at the top, letting fresh air and the misting rain fall into the chamber. She looks around; finds mounds of skulls of varying species and ages stacked like offerings. An androgynous statue sits on a throne of bone and mud and decay, arms held out and palms turned in offering. In one sits…stands?...some sort of urn shaped like a human. The other hand holds nothing but broken shards of clay. 

Maybe the urn had a partner, and it broke just from exposure to the elements--

June looks over her shoulder, to the upside down mural. Then back to the urn. It’s--it’s the female figure. The goddess worshipped and feared in equal measure. The chamber must have been where all the offerings were brought. Bones and meat and blood and life. 

_ j u n e... _

Her knees knock. June’s body feels liquid soft and tender, like all the tension uncoils at the sound of her name woven in between her own ears. It’s soothing; it’s horrifying.

“What the fuck,” she chokes. 

The Something chuckles. It has a source outside of her own head, though; like a classic horror movie, it seems to drift out of the urn. Of course a creepy voice would come out of a depiction of some ancient pagan deity that thrived off of live, ritual sacrifice. Not like June’s day can get any worse.

A shadow falls over her. Professor Holts, head researcher and the man responsible for setting a pack of mercenaries and angry, clout starved grave robbers--June will  _ never _ call them archeologists--after her shouts in triumph, “ _ There you are, June-bug. _ ” 

“Oh, come  _ on _ ,” June says. Her voice cracks and she starts to cry. Genuine fucking tears. Dammit. So much for going out with dignity.

_ do you fear them, june?  _ The urn whispers. June stares at it.  _ come closer. come to me. come to me, little mayfly. _

June doesn’t move until the first couple of ropes drop into the chamber. Professor Holts barks orders for his thugs to start rappelling. She can already hear him salivating over his  _ unprecedented,  _ historical find, and poor Dr. Moone, poor poor June, one of the youngest and brightest archeologists of the decade gone in the blink of an eye! Lost before her time! He’ll dedicate the find in her name, except, he won’t. 

In three strides she’s stumbling up the throne, boots squelching in the mud and cracking the foundation bones in half. Some of them straight up crumble into dust as she climbs. Fucking spooky. 

She’s face to face with the urn now, breath shallow. The rain’s warm but June is so, so cold. 

_ your blood, _ says the figurine,  _ sings to me. it sang and cried and called. and now, i have answered. _

June blinks slowly. Her hands feel wet and tacky; when she looks down she sees nothing but blood and damp soil ground into the wounds, red mud under her nails. Blood still weeps and dribbles down her wrists, between her fingers, creased into every line of her hands. 

_ take me, mayfly. let us form a pact. i will shelter you, as you shelter me.  _

June’s shaking arms reach up, and as if on autopilot, her hands close around the urn with the utmost tenderness. It’s centuries--no,  _ millennia _ old, screams her soul--so she has to be careful. Has to treat it with care. She doesn’t want to break it.

_ yes, you do! it will release me, june. _ The voice in her head lets out a...a...June isn’t sure how to classify the noise it makes as her blood dribbles over blackened clay, trickling into minute cracks. It’s warm between her palms, now. The voice turns to humming, a purr that creeps into June’s hindbrain and sits patiently like an epileptic fic, lightning waiting to strike and thunder to shake the meat from her bones.

_ now you are  _ ** _mine_ ** _ . now i am yours. be good for me. break the seal, my mayfly. _

June turns slowly as a chorus of heavy bodies hitting earth reaches her ears. She’s bathed in the harsh glare of flashlights as Holts’ mercs level their automatic guns at her. 

How fucking stupid, June whimpers in her mind. How fucking stupid are they to use a goddamn gun near all this history? All this  _ beauty? _ Rationally she should just sort of--she should let it happen. June’s going to die and the more evidence left behind in the photos that will inevitably surface will be her revenge. 

But maybe June doesn’t want to die. Maybe she’s hallucinating that an ancient voice in an ancient urn is whispering, chanting ancient promises and ancient pacts and--

The seal snaps under her shuddering hands. It's not even a second thought, it’s subconscious. Fated. As instinctual as following the right hall to a dead end that hides power. Black smoke billows from the crackled remains, flowing around June like water and flooding the bottom of the ritual chamber; the hired guns look a little spooked. 

June isn’t spooked. Not yet. She hears soft laughter that grows and grows, warping until it’s ringing in her ear. Until the smoke swirls around her hands. Until the smoke tingles as it licks at the tears in her palms, embers flicking like tongues over her skin and leave behind shiny new skin. It stops, then. Settles into a nice, sedated murmur. Feels like fingers in her skull, scratching her scalp from the inside out; tenderly terrifying.

_ yes _ , the voice purrs.  _ yes, oh yes. june moone _ . She--the voice belongs to a woman, maybe the goddess in the mural, fuck if June knows or cares at this precise moment--sounds so delighted. It’s probably not a good sign.  _ i see you, june. i see all of you, my june, mine, mine.  _

“What are you waiting for?!” snaps Professor Holts. “Fucking  _ shoot _ , you idiots!” 

I attended your class, June wants to say. I looked forward to your lectures. I paid thousands of fucking dollars to learn from you, you dickhead. 

The goddess chuckles. June can feel her making a cozy little nest in her cerebellum, sifting through memories, knowledge, through  _ June _ . It’s not important to June right now.

You’re going to kill me? June wants to snarl to Holts. For some goddamn credit? For  _ more _ money? You’re stupid rich already, June wants to scream.

_ your blood roars fire in your fury _ , the goddess notes with a sigh.  _ how pleased i am with you, mayfly. _

The guns narrow on her. Fingers on the trigger. She’s going to die.

_ my sun drenched sky, let me pay blood in blood. let me, let me, let me. how they have hurt you; how they have frightened you! let me make them pay. their blood will drench the floor and i will crunch their bones in my teeth and oh, my summer storm, how i will repay you. _

But June does not snarl, or scream.

_ let me out. _

“ _ Enchantress, _ ” June breathes.


	2. terrible decor(um)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> tw: semi-graphic depictions of dead bodies, june is under the impression that she is having a Breakdown and is otherwise mentally ill, and reacts in an unhealthy way. no self harm, but definitely few to no Good Thoughts about herself.

June wakes up. Her brain feels like raw, weeping meat; her mouth is dry and her skin itchy all over. She smacks her lips and tries to get some spit going, to combat at least one of these horrible hangover feelings. That just makes her want to vomit because her tongue and the inside of her cheeks feel tender and angry, taste like old copper, like June grabbed a fistful of pennies and gnawed on them. 

Wait, June thinks. I’m alive.

Which she’s not gonna complain about, don’t get her wrong, but it’s just altogether a little strange, considering the twenty five people who wanted her dead.

Pressure shifts inside of her head. There’s the half hearted echo of eagerness and attention, feelings that don’t belong entirely to June. 

June sits up. Slow, steady, to keep her brain from oozing out of her ears or bile to spew from her mouth. She’s grateful for her empty stomach because when she takes in her surroundings, she dry heaves a little bit, and if she’d had anything in her it’d be all over her jeans.

The mercenaries Holts hired hang suspended. Their climbing ropes are woven through their limbs like marionette wires; their mouths open and empty of teeth ( _ why? _ ) and backs flayed open to expose muscle and spine. Alexi, head merc honcho, is on his knees, arms broken and twisted behind his back with the barrel of his gun shoved down his throat. Rodrick, June’s digsite roommate (who June is ninety percent sure was watching her bathe and change, the fucking creep), has been folded up into an actual goddamn pretzel.

Professor Holts is strung upside down by his calcaneal tendons. June actually  _ does _ vomit bile because his head sits where his crotch used to be.  _ Why???? _

_ You called him a dickhead _ , a voice purrs in her head.  _ So. I made his head his dick. I am so very clever, I know, you do not need to say it. _

June screams. The sound is sharp and echoes in the corpse covered chamber, and she stumbles backwards--slips on mud--and falls on her ass. 

_ Such fear, mayfly! Did I startle you? _

“What the fuck,” June sputters. The bodies are fresh, and June only knows that because as she hyperventilates she isn’t breathing in the onset of decomposition. She does, however, smell a  _ lot _ of shit and a  _ lot _ of piss, which makes sense, because dead bodies can’t be faulted for incompetence. “Oh God, oh my God, what the fuck,  _ what the fuck _ .”

_ You’re confused, _ says the voice. Sounds womanly. Sounds a little bit like June but dark and a little husky, like it comes from the bottom-back of her throat, slick around words like she’s just tasting them for the first time.  _ That’s where the fear comes from. _

June screams again. She presses her hands to her temples and tries, fails, not to freak the fuck out. What happened? The last thing she remembers is--

Running. Temple. Scooby-Doo Trap Door. Bloody hands cupping a clay figurine. Black smoke, a voice in her ear, and then,

“Enchantress?” June stammers. 

Fingers graze her shoulders, tender and firm. Then she’s yanked backwards into, what June can only faintly describe as, herself; she can still see, though her peripherals are clouded with smoke and embers, and her hearing’s gone a little...foggy. 

“June,” her mouth moves, her throat humming with use, but her voice not her own, “Did you need me already?”

Three for three; June screams, but internally. 

** _WHAT THE FUCK WHAT THE FUCK WHAT THE FUCK IS HAPPENING WHAT THE FUCK WHAT THE F_ **

“Be calm,” Not-June says flatly. “You called  _ me _ out.”

She starts  _ scuttling _ across the mud; as her head ducks down, June can see stringy hanks of ebony hair swinging in her face. Hears rattling chains. Glimpses of what used to be June’s arms reveals soot and dirt streaked skin, runes scarred into pale flesh. Her hands are dark, almost blackened by filth or rot, June genuinely does not know.

She--the voice? Woman? Not-June? What to call the thing piloting her body?--is moving for Alexi’s corpse. Her hands reach out and tenderly stroke his face. Paints an actual fucking pentagram over his forehead.

“What do you think, my mayfly?” Not-June asks in an eager whisper.

** _WHAT THE FUCK WHAT THE FUCK PLEASE STOP STROKING HIS FACE._ **

“Oh, you don’t want me to touch.” The hands pull back. “That’s fine.”

** _NONE OF THIS IS FINE_ **

“You are displeased, June?” Not-June sounds disappointed. “Hm. Modern girl of modern sensibilities. Yes. Perhaps I was too...flashy…” 

** _WHO WHAT ARE YOU WHY DO YOU HAVE MY BODY WHAT IS GOING ON_ **

“Can we not shout? Let’s just talk, June. Indoor voices.” Not-June peeks up at the sky and hums a laugh. “Well, in a manner of speaking.”

June has another round of internal freaking, just for good measure. Just to get it all out of her system. Then, doing the healthy thing and compartmentalizing it, she says--thinks?-- _ Okay. No really, okay, I’m good. I’m great. Who and what are you, and why do you have my body. _

“You are a liar, but the lack of shouting is nice,” says Not-June. “I am a...demon is the closest Anglish word you possess, but also untrue. Hmm...Demigod? Witch? Bah,” she waves a hand, “The labels matter little. All you need know is that I am  _ Powerful _ .“

June can  _ hear _ the capital P in that word. Can feel it, too, just glimpsing the corpses swaying in the damp breeze.

Not June continues; “I do not ‘have’ your body, it is still yours, but you invited my essence within you. And for who I am--” 

Not-June spins slowly. Let’s June see through her eyes that everyone who attended this expedition, everyone who wanted June dead, is a corpse held up in a fashion that Clive Barker would’ve wanted to take some notes about. 

“--My storm,” Not-June says in a fond, bemused tone, “you know this already.” 

June shivers inside her skin. No, she doesn’t know, but she also  _ does _ know:  _ Enchantress _ , she thinks. 

“Correct.” 

_ Your name is...Enchantress? _

“Again, it is the closest translation available.”

_ What’s your actual name then? _ ” 

“Enchantress?” says Not-June, then June’s in control of her limbs and body again. June also discovers, as she is frantically patting her body, not totally covered in mud and her hair is still pulled back in its ponytail. 

_ You tricked me! _ Enchantress lets out a laugh.  _ I was not expecting that. You need only ask nicely. _

“What,” June says, trembling head to toe and, yep, cool, tears round two! “What the fuck is going on? I’m nuts. I just had a psychotic break. I’m traumatized so severely that I,” she looks around the chamber and croaks, “I  _ super _ murdered twenty five men.” 

_ No?  _ Enchantress’s emotions--that’s all June can really describe it as--give her the impression of a quizzical head tilt. June finds herself naturally echoing the motion before she can stop herself.  _ June, you did not kill them.  _ ** _I_ ** _ killed them. _

“Using  _ my _ body!”

_ We completed the pact, _ Enchantress says simply.  _ Of course I had to use your body. _

“How the  _ fuck _ did you do it, though?!” June gestures around, vaguely, to all the frickin’ dead people hanging from the ceiling. 

_ Magic _ . 

June doesn’t know what to say to that, so she laughs, and cries, and kicks a skull into Alexi’s chest. He tips over with a wet squelch and she flips his body the bird. Panics for a full fifteen more minutes before she curls up in the mud and presses her head against her knees, trying to breathe. 

Depression, she can deal with, June thinks. She’s got the average millennial amount. Sure, unmedicated depression can be a bit of a bitch, but June’s used to pushing through roadblocks on her way. It’s sort of what she does, now. She did it in college and she did it for her PhD and she did it for her mom when Dad passed from kidney cancer, and she did it for herself when Mom got t-boned by a drunk driver last fourth of July while June had been in Egypt. June can handle  _ depression _ . 

She cannot handle a breakdown like this. She just can’t. All June has left is her job and if she loses that--which she will, cause like, she just murdered  _ a ton of people _ and now she’s got a ghost in her head--she’ll have. Well. Nothing. Nothing and no one, really. 

_ June _ . Enchantress again. It’s hard to pin down the tone of her voice; sad? Guilty?  _ My display did not please you. _

“Display?” June croaks. She snorts back snot and spits it over her shoulder. “You mean the fucking  _ massacre _ ? No, no this doesn’t  _ please _ me. What the actual fuck? What was it supposed to fucking be?!”

_ A display. To show you that I am strong.  _ Enchantress wriggles in her brain. June wonders if she’s just a metaphor for a tumor. Or cancer. Like a tried and true  _ Grey’s Anatomy  _ character. Then she has to think about wriggling tumors and shudders hard.  _ I take offense to that. From what I know of tumors, you do not allow them in. You allowed me in. _

“I didn’t allow  _ shit _ !” 

_ You did! _ Enchantress snaps back.  _ Your blood, my blood! Your flesh, my power! We shelter the other! _

“Oh, I’m so  _ sorry _ I didn’t read the head demon pamphlet included with possession,” June shrieks, slamming her fists on the ground. “Was the orientation before or after you went  _ Carrie _ on them?!” 

_ I _ _ protected you!  _ Enchantress bellows, rattling June’s skull until the ache’s in her teeth.  _ I **protected ** _ _you_ _ , foolish child! It was your blood that called to me, your heart that raced within my soul and drew me close! You are the sun and I the moon, cursed to follow! _

June pops to her feet. Moves for the mural wall. And then she stops as she processes Enchantress’ words, kneeling down to get a better look at the now upside down depiction. The crescent moon; Enchantress. 

The male figure; the sun. The silence sits between the two of them long enough to feel awkward, and June can feel Enchantress' hackles lowering. Metaphorically of course.

_ Brother _ , comes Enchantress’ soft, weary sigh.  _ He was sealed, along with me. But I do not know where his essence is. He is gone. _

“He’s--he’s dead?” 

_ It must be so. If my brother were alive, inhabiting flesh, I would not be here. _

“Here. In my body,” June says, a muscle ticking in her jaw. She tries to ignore the sympathy that beckons her to care about a figment of her imagination. The grief in Enchantress’ voice can’t be anything other than genuine. It’d sound more dramatic if it were fake; the resigned acceptance of reality speaks volumes. 

_ Perhaps, _ Enchantress replies, her voice cool.  _ Realize that I can hear your thoughts, June. You think very loudly. I am a figment of nothing. _

“Right, sorry,” June mutters on instinct. She’s distracted now, using her hands to scrub off centuries of grime for more information. Anything else. Something to prove--what, that she’s crazy? Or that she’s  _ not _ . That this is genuine. Real. Sick as it is, June might actually be comforted in knowing she’s got a demon in her. 

Demons can be exorcised, after all.

_ Try it. We cannot be parted so easily. _

“Shhh, sh shhh, I think I got something,” June whispers. She peels off a sheet of vegetation as carefully as she can. There’s a series of carvings here, visible only with the mural in this flipped state. Something June wouldn’t have ever been able to see, or think of, because she doesn’t know this temple or these people and their customs, their gods, their history. 

It’s a line of procession, June realizes. Princesses becoming queens, not by marriage, but by...June doesn't know what to call it. But something's being passed between each queen carving. Looks like smoke. They carry the crescent moon over their heads every time. Which means...

_ Former lives _ , Enchantress confirms. 

“Holy shit,” June breathes. Her arms drop by her sides. “Holy  _ shit _ .” 

_ From what I can gather, demons are not considered holy. But yes. Holy shit, right? _

“You’re like. You’re  _ real _ . You’re really actually a demon in a jar, now in my body. You--” June puts her hands to her head again. “You could have possessed me forever, couldn’t you?”

_ You would have woken up eventually, _ says Enchantress, shifting uneasily in June’s mind.  _ Disoriented, confused, frightened. Vulnerable. The cycle would continue, my possessing the body, until your conscience was silenced for good. Until all that remained was me. _

“Jesus…” June swallows. Looks at the line of queens. “But you didn’t.”

_ I did not _ , the Enchantress says gently. 

June drops her head to the stone. It’s starting to smell really rank in the Death Chamber and she’s sweaty, and tired, and all she wants to do is go back to her apartment and shower and sleep for five hundred years. But the cave ceiling is too high and clogged with, well, dead people for her to climb out of, and the mural only goes the one way. 

_ You wish to return home?  _ Enchantress perks up.  _ I can take you home. Will you let me take you to your apartment, June? _

“Someone’s eager,” June says. It’s almost a tease. 

_ My display of power would have impressed the royalty of a forgotten time. You did not appreciate my hard work. So I will show you in a different way. _

“Assuming, of course, that I can trust you.” Which, to be fair? June sort of is. Enchantress said something about being able to read her thoughts, and June feels like that’s the same in reverse, to some extent. Enchantress can hide her own thoughts but she can’t hide the way she feels and not once has June gotten a tingle of a lie. Either she's that good, or that Good, like a murderous fairy godmother that lives in June's head. Huh. Wild.

Enchantress must have read between the lines there, because her answering laugh is amused.  _ I never assume, June.  _

“Oh?”

_ I am not one to be made an ass of _ , Enchantress says proudly. 

“Huh. Could have fooled me. Didn’t you assume I’d dig the corpse party?” June points out. "And I super don't, by the way. It's literally the stuff of nightmares. I cried. I cried like a bunch.

A beat of silence. June can feel the pout.  _ ...Oh. Shit _ . 

“Yeah, that’s what I thought. Fine. Lets make some asses; you're gonna take me to my apartment and it’s definitely not gonna be a hallucination, and I won’t starve to death in a ritual cave for my hubris.” 

_ Say my name, my mayfly _ , purrs Enchantress.  _ Allow this one a chance to redeem her awful sense of decor. _

  
That’s kind of hot, June thinks as quietly as possible as she says  _ Enchantress _ , and the world is whisked away in a plume of charred, black smoke.


	3. boundaries

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> tw: june dismisses and shows self loathing towards the concept of having a mental illness.

June drips back into her body in the middle of her living room, her bags and digging equipment falling with a thud all around her. Except for her keys, which dangle above the bowl on the coffee table for a split second before dropping in with a clatter. Enchantress settles in the back of her brain like a La-Z-Boy with a pleased sigh. She’s preening silently, June can tell. 

“Alright,” says June. “I have to admit. That  _ was _ pretty cool.”

_ You are pleased? Convinced? _

June walks around. Passes her dirty fingers along the surface of her bookshelf, rubs the grit of dust and neglect between them. There’s magazines and junk mail stuffed into the empty spaces between old textbooks and a crumbling encyclopedia from the nineties. It all feels real enough, but June still wanders to the ancient landline. She thumbs in the number for her landlord’s office, and is surprised when Ms. Cohen picks up after the second ring. 

“Everfare Apartments, how can I help you?” 

“Hey,” June says. Her voice sounds like she’s sucked back three packs of cheap cigarettes. “I’m uh, I’m home?” 

“June!” Ms. Cohen sounds delightfully shocked. “I thought you were going to be in Brazil for three more weeks.” 

“Huh.” June goes as far as the landline’s cord will let her and peeks through the kitchenette window. Muted sunlight spills over cramped space. Post it notes from months ago still cling stubbornly to the surface of her fridge. “What uh, what time is it?”

“Nine thirty, June. You should have told me you were flying in, I would have turned your power on so you could have the air conditioner running. Do you want me to send maintenance on that?”

“Uh,” June rasps. She gingerly peels the flimsy curtain aside. She’s got a pretty decent view of her street; she sees a few cars trundling down the street, carefully avoiding potholes. This close to the window, June can smell the angry tang of smog and gasoline, and wet garbage from the dumpster at the corner. “Yeah. Yeah um, that’d be nice. Ms. Cohen, is my water still on?” 

“Yes sweetie, like always.” There’s a shuffle over the other end of the line. “June? Are you feeling okay? You sound rattled.” 

“I’m just tired,” June says, truthfully. “Jetlag, I guess. When’s the electricity guy showing up?” 

“I can have him in by noon. Is that okay?” 

“Yeah, that’s fine. Okay. I’m gonna hang up now. Get a shower.” 

“Alright, June. Call if you need anything else.” 

“Sure,” June says, and hangs up. Then, to Enchantress, says, “Pretty convinced.” 

_ How?  _ Enchantress drums her fingers against June’s frontal cortex, nails idly scraping over memories and thoughts and emotions but not delving into them. Just touching. Just sitting there on the surface. 

“The bookshelf. Lot of dust that I wouldn’t know or care about. The encyclopedia was a Christmas present from my dad back when I was a kid. First big kid book he ever bought me.” June swallows around the rising lump in her throat. “That’s how I learned about dinosaurs. If I were just dreaming this up I wouldn’t put that fucking thing where I could see it.”

_ What? Why not, June? _ Enchantress prods June’s brain a little. Goes quiet as she peeks into what happened. June half expects to start reliving the memory and is ready to lash out again, but she just...knows that Enchantress knows, like how she knew Enchantress’ name. 

Enchantress doesn’t give condolences or platitudes. She simply exists within June. Looks at the open ache and acknowledges it and puts a hand over it, a pressure. Silent, steady. In that silence, June begins the laborious process of picking up her bags and dragging them into her tiny bedroom, shoving them into whatever empty corners she can find. She doesn’t bother to unpack because she’s gonna have to wash everything she owns anyway. 

June moves for the bathroom. Hesitates. The mirror above the sink frightens her with the possibility of what she might see. Or, maybe, what she  _ won’t _ see. 

“Like ripping off a bandaid, June,” she coaches herself. She walks into the bathroom and goes to the sink. Looks down at the cheap porcelain and clutches the sides of it. “Like a bandaid. A bandaid…” 

She shuts her eyes. Tilts her head up. Snaps her eyes open and prepares herself for whatever’s across from her--and it’s just her own reflection. She’s streaked with mud and dry sweat. Tear tracks, puffy eyes. Her hair is plastered to her scalp from her helmet and the rain, an angry knot at the back of her head letting June know that getting the hair tie free is gonna be Hell on Earth. 

She breathes in. Breathes out. Looks at her own eyes frantically, trying to see if there’s any change there; to their color, their shape. Anything to prove Enchantress is looking out from behind them, too. 

_ Ah, _ Enchantress says quietly.  _ Of course, you would be beautiful. _

“Shut up,” June mumbles. She can’t look away from her own eyes, brows furrowing. “Would I have to call you out to...see you? In the mirror?”

_ No. You would...like to see me? _

June licks her lip. Swallows again. “Yeah. Figure I should see what you and I look like when you’re out of me.” 

_ Very well, June. _

The mirror ripples. The surface goes dark, like a pot of ink was spilled inside of it, spreading to each corner. June doesn’t breathe until she sees cinders, and a pale, filthy form peels forward. The first thing June can really notice is how...fucking  _ freaky  _ Enchantress’ eyes are. 

They’re the same color as June’s, but the pupil is bright like a living coal, flickering the longer June looks. Enchantress is draped in ceremonial chains and metal, but she wears uh--very little, if June’s being generous. The planes of her body cast sharp shadows, edges cruel enough to cut; but the curve of her--and, honest to God, June is  _ not _ trying to oogle or check out the demon thing parked in her body, but like,  _ objectively _ , though--could beckon the desperate.

Her hair is ridiculously long and tangled, and she looks like a wild, strange thing plucked from primordial soup; the gauntness of her face and the deep shadows under her eyes should give her a fragile softness, but it only serves to highlight the danger. 

June raises a hand. In the mirror, Enchantress matches the movements. June slowly touches her fingers to the glass, half expecting Enchantress’ hand to wrap around June’s own and pull her under a spell. 

_ That, my mayfly, is something I cannot do, _ Enchantress says inside of her head. Her reflection’s lips don’t move.  _ I apologize for my...appearance. I lack much of my true power and it has been a while since my subjects were destroyed. _

“Destroyed?” June croaks. 

_ Colonization, June, _ Enchantress says simply.  _ What the pillaging and rape did not destroy, the plagues finished. What did not rot was locked away beneath the temple, where it could not be found.  _

“You,” June guesses. “It was you and your...brother?” 

_ And those who called themselves our high priests and priestesses, yes. _

“They sealed themselves up with you?” 

_ It was custom,  _ Enchantress replies.  _ My brother and I found no afterlife, in the stasis of our seals, but surely those who would act as our vessels did. Maybe. I do not think the gods were pleased at our worship. _

“Jesus Christ,” June says again. She grips the sink. “Gods? There’s like, a legit afterlife? Fuck, there’s a hell?!”

_ There are seven _ . 

“Yeah,” June says, thinking about how unjustly terrible the world can be, “yeah, okay, that tracks. Can you uh, look away? I have to change. For my shower.” 

_ As you say.  _ The mirror ripples again, and then June’s looking at her own reflection. She turns away with a sigh and flexes her hands once, twice, before she starts to peel herself out of her clothes. With some hard scrubbing she can save her jeans, but the shirt and bra are pretty done for. It wasn’t one of her good bras anyway; she’s had to staple and pin the straps so many times. 

June gets into the tub and yanks the curtain shut behind her. She turns the water to hot and stands beneath the spray. Her skin screams but June turns her face to the burn. The pain is a different kind of grounding. Cleansing and sinking in down to her bones. 

_ I am not particularly keen on you using pain as a coping mechanism, June _ , says Enchantress. 

“What are you, my therapist?” June mumbles, lowering her head so the water doesn’t dump into her mouth. She realizes with a wince that she left the hair tie in. How to get that little bitch out of her hair so she can wash it? 

_ It wouldn’t be a bad idea. A therapist. _

“What would I even say? ‘Hey what’s up, my name’s June, I made a pact with a demon witch from the Amazon and she killed twenty five people with magic to impress me.’ I don’t think I’d walk out of there with a Prozac prescription.” 

She tentatively works at the snarled knot at the back of her head. She manages to find the fiber elastic, gets a finger beneath. The first pull, of course, leaves her breathless from the pain.

“Mother _ fucker _ ,” June snaps. She closes her hand around the base of her ponytail, hooks another finger in the elastic and yanks. The elastic goes free, but it leaves June’s scalp raw with pain and takes a good amount of hair as payback. 

_ You could start with your name, yes. _ Enchantress is picking through her brain and memories again. Feels like she’s thumbing through June like an office assistant with files.  _ You did suffer a traumatic experience on your trip. You were nearly killed _ . 

June is quiet for that. She wants to shiver but the heat won’t let her. 

“How would I say that I escaped?” 

_ You’re a clever girl, and they were stupid men. It would not be that hard to believe. _

“And when they find the bodies?” June asks, reaching for the shampoo bottle. It’s nearly empty; she’ll have to go out and buy more. She starts to wash her hair, being careful with her smarting scalp. She feels a  _ ting _ in her brain and twitches at the sensation of Enchantress snagging information.

_ Well, it looks like you know of a supervillainess with a penchant for killing men in the Amazon, _ says Enchantress.  _ Or tomorrow I can go and get rid of the evidence. I don’t mind either option _ . 

“Let’s go with the second one,” June says. “I’m not about to go blaming Poison Ivy for what happened, yeah? She talks to plants.”

_ ...Good for her _ . 

“Hey, shut up!” June rinses her hair, and gets her loofah and body wash next. “If I go telling a therapist that Poison Ivy showed up and murdered all those dickbags, and there’s a--I dunno, a fern, or something, just in the corner? Guess who knows that I’m a possible narc! The  _ plant lady _ .“

_ Oh my. _ drawls Enchantress.  _ I quiver with fear. _

“This is all moot, anyway,” June says, scrubbing hard at the mud caked under her nails. “I can’t go to therapy.” 

_ Can’t, or won’t? _

“Same either way. I’ve got more important things to worry about right now. Like, how the fuck I’m going to keep my job, or pay my bills, or--” June grinds her jaw. “Or how I’m going to live with you. If I decide to. But that’s for tomorrow June, honestly. Today June is going to get a shower, wait for the power guy, and then she’s going to nap.”

_ Today June will also eat something _ , Enchantress says. 

“Not hungry.”

_ You need to eat. _

“Meh.” June turns shower off and pulls back the curtain. The bathroom is full of steam. She’s forgotten a towel.

_ June. You will eat _ . 

“What’re you gonna do, make me?” June snorts. “Or just nag until I say your name.”

_ I am at my most powerful when you give me consent, _ Enchantress begins, her voice a dark threat against June’s ear,  _ but I  _ ** _am_ ** _ capable of taking control. _

June goes cold at that. The fear, which had been sitting cozy under a sheet of numbness, rises up with a vengeance. The tap drips in the burgeoning silence that follows. 

_ It can only happen when you are weak, _ Enchantress says after a moment, and June isn’t imagining the regret lacing her voice.  _ So for your own sake of mind, eat something. Anything. Give your body what it needs to recover from your ordeal. _

“Just so you know,” June says, her voice calm when she feels  _ very _ much the opposite. “Dick move to threaten me with that.” 

_ I know. _

“Like, seriously,  _ dick _ move. You aren’t my boss, you aren’t in charge of me. You aren’t my therapist. You aren’t my m--” 

And, to June’s biggest regret, a sob chokes off the last word.  _ Mother _ . She covers her mouth with a hand and feels Enchantress shift with concern. June sinks back into the cold and wet bathtub and curls up, naked and afraid. 

God, June is afraid. 

_ June. June, please. June, _ Enchantress tries. Her spirit paces back and forth inside. June could almost say that she’s panicked.  _ What can I do? What can I do to help you? Anything, my mayfly. I--you’ve seen how strong I am, I can help you, I can protect you-- _

“It’s not--fuck! It’s not you, it’s not--” June weeps. “It’s not you.”

_ I have triggered this response. _

“It’s not--I’m not triggered.” Junes takes a shuddering breath. “I don’t have PTSD.”

June can feel Enchantress pouring through her mind for the definition. 

_ June, I think you do. _

“I don’t! I mean I might get it after today but. I don’t have it. I’m fine. I’m just being a fucking baby.” June jams her knuckles into her sore eyes like she can physically beat back her tears. “I’m being stupid. It’s stupid, it’s stupid. It’s childish to get all ‘I want my mo--” 

She coughs. Can’t finish the word. That just makes her an angry mix of frustrated and beyond sad. She’s so sad. 

_ Oh, my June, _ Enchantress breathes.  _ No. It is not childish. _

June jumps as she feels like--maybe it’s a hug? From the? Inside? It’s hard to describe. It’s comforting like arms around her and warm like a proper bath, but June is still--physically--alone. But it’s--well firstly it’s freaky. Not gonna lie. But it’s also kind of nice. 

“I shouldn’t be worked up about it,” June sniffles. “It’s not my fault. It’s not.” 

Enchantress hums.  _ It was not. _

“I didn’t hit her.”

_ No. You did not.  _

“And he got jail,” June says tightly. Her throat feels like it’s squeezed shut. “People saw him. They reported it. He’s in jail.”

_ He is, _ says Enchantress. The ‘hug’ gets a little tighter. June doesn’t ask how Enchantress knows, because if the witch lives in her brain, then she’s seen the memories June tries very hard not to. A sweltering day in Egypt. Being called out from the field. The weightless, helpless tumble of her life crumbling under her feet. Time bleeds away and leaves nothing but her own trembling heart and Enchantress tucked under her skin, holding her like no one else ever has.

“Okay.” June mumbles it quietly. She’s spent a while here. The water’s drained to nothing in the tub and her hair is a little stiff; damp, but not dry. “Maybe. Maybe I have some...triggers. Maybe you did stumble on one. Accidentally.”

_ And I apologize for it. _ Enchantress doesn’t pull away, her simmering presence trying to chase away the lingering cold deep inside. June doesn’t know if it works, but it’s...nice. It’s nice. 

“I know you didn’t mean to. I didn’t even know it was there.” June unwinds and leans her head against the wall. “Sorry for being a brat. I know you want your...vessel to be healthy.” 

_ I want  _ ** _you_ ** _ to be healthy, my mayfly. I want your spirit to remain intact. I have no desire to puppet an empty shell. _

“Aw,” June sniffs. “You  _ liiiike _ me.” 

_ I am attached to the potential of our relationship, yes,  _ Enchantress says. Her ‘hug’ loosens until it fades into a phantom tingle.  _ Now get dressed, June. The maintenance person will be in and if they see you naked, I will have to kill them. _

“Jesus!” June scrambles to her feet. “You know what, in relationships we do this thing called ‘boundary setting’. That’s number one,  _ no _ murder. You wanna camp out in this prime Moone-estate, you cannot murder.”

_ June! This is unacceptable! _ June feels the smirk in her mind.  _ It is not murder if it is self defense. _

“Ah-ha- _ ha _ , nice try, smartass,” June snarks, stomping out of her bathroom. She reaches into her nearly empty closet and pulls out her apartment-only comfy clothes, an old Yale t-shirt and a pair of grey sweats. She manages to find a somewhat clean towel while she’s in there and starts to dry her hair. 

“Boundary rule number two,” June says, tossing the towel to her bed and going for the suitcase for her wallet and toiletries. She pulls out her hair brush and starts on that. “You know shit. In my brain. There’s some stuff I want to keep private, so unless it is  _ absolutely necessary _ just. Stay in your space.” 

_ Understandable,  _ Enchantress agrees easily.  _ Most of your personal life remains a mystery, though I do reserve the right to look through the public knowledge you possess.  _

“Fair,” June says. She picks out her personal phone, relieved to see it unharmed and still sitting pretty with a delicious 89% battery. “Any from you?” 

Enchantress remains quiet for a moment.  _ If I deem your life in  _ ** _unavoidable_ ** _ danger, I will make the push to take over, _ she says softly.  _ I will try to warn you beforehand, of course. _

June hums as she opens her contacts. Scrolls down to her favorites, and rubs a thumb along the case. 

“What happens then?” June asks. 

_ I will remove the threat to you. _

“Boundary one,” June reminds sharply. 

_ Yes, yes. I will remove the threat to you... _ ** _within reason_ ** _ . _ Enchantress bites the words out.  _ The next is that you will not disregard my advice about your health. _

“Okay, now that sounds a little dick-y.” 

_ You ignore your own body too much, not to mention your own emotional and mental wellbeing. I have been in here for literally less than a day, and I can see it. It is either my advice to maintain your body, or you sign up for therapy. _ Enchantress sits back, smug.  _ Your choice, my mayfly. _

“Fine,” June snips. “Then I’ll look up a therapist right now.”

_ Good. _

“And maybe an exorcist.”

_ June. _

“Okay,” she sighs. “Okay, okay. Okay. I will...be...less of a brat about this. I’ll try to be. Last thing, though.”

Enchantress hums a sigh, leaning in.  _ Yes, June? _

June opens up the tab on her phone that houses all the take out options she possesses. “Do you want Chinese?”


End file.
